Hange stands out in a sharply tailored suit, mask acquired, hair tousled, exuding effortless charm as they laugh a little too loudly. Their confident stance contrasts with Pieck, who glides through the room in a flowing gown, mask decorated with delicate lace, every gesture intentional and soft. They find each other in the crowd — chaos and grace drawn together beneath glittering lights. Immediately drawn to each other, they find themselves in a bathroom.
Pieck finds herself pressed up against the cold marble wall, her gown bunched up in Hange’s fist, delicate fabric creased between their rough fingers. Gold fixtures gleam under soft, expensive lighting, and the air smells faintly of floral soap and champagne. Pieck’s breath comes soft and uneven, her hands curled into the lapels of Hange’s suit, pulling them closer, not pushing them away.
Hange kneels on the marble floor, suit jacket tossed aside, sleeves rolled up, fingers curling deep inside Pieck while their tongue works slow and relentless. Pieck’s back arches against the wall, her gown pooled around her waist, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, the other buried in Hange’s hair, pulling them closer with every shaky breath. The room hums with soft gasps and the quiet, obscene sound of Hange’s mouth, lost in the taste of her.
Afterwards, Hange’s hands are softer, tracing slow circles along Pieck’s bare thigh as they sit together on the closed toilet lid, Pieck tucked into Hange’s chest. Hange hums something low and aimless, brushing damp hair back from Pieck’s flushed face, pressing lazy kisses to her temple. Hange’s voice a quiet murmur, sweet, silly praise mixed with gentle teasing, until Pieck’s soft laugh finally returns, and Hange smiles like they’ve won something priceless.